I'm stuck inside myself
I got scared and called for help
but a year of pushing friends away
left me yelling to nobody
I missed all of my exits and now
the road looks unclear before me
I've forgotten what I learned in driving lessons
and I keep seeing signs of you and me

I'm stuck inside myself
waited too long to ask for help
a year of deviating healing
and speeding down roads I carved out of skin
I should have shed months ago,
how will I know?
What does healing look like?
This intrapersonal fight has fogged my eyesight,
and the roads are snowy now since it's winter again,
I fear I won't ever win,
this intrapersonal warfare has left me on the field,
wounded and silent, afraid to reach out,
I fear I might not ever know what it's like to heal

This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******* may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…

The question regarding the question relies on what the question really is.

If the question implied is a question directed outwardly, then it may be misinterpreted as a question to oneself internally.

Otherwise, a question explicitly directed inwardly is critical to deciphering the question that one will address outwardly.  

If an indirect question is questioned through the user, then the question itself becomes a metaphysical question to choose from.

In the event a question is said through alternate means, consider the quantitative/qualitative state of the question at the time being; as it may be resolved by asking the question in a subconscious level indeed.  

Superficial means tends to seek fundamental questions to the reality of the state one naturally possesses.  

In the case where the unconscious decides the opportune event to question the conscious reality, one must interpret the means in examination of the intrapersonal mentality.  

If the question is imposed through correlative thought and subliminal expression, then the question itself is related to a parallel conscious state intertwined with the unconscious state of mind of progression.

If the question is relative in combination to the solutions mentioned above becoming apparent, then one has means to ask the question without questioning the question itself in disparate.

Otherwise, the question continues to perplex the question through the continuation of irrelevant questions that one will have thought; creating a treacherous belief so concurrent one could not have fought.

Therefore, is the reality of the question portrayed to the reality you live in or the reality of others? As this poem was conclusive to subtly evoke thought in the questions we construct.

By: Michael M. De La Fuente

Our brains run on the
Same frequency, a precise
Pitch. Subconsciously stumbling
Into a cranium-themed cohabitation.

With Bics in hand
We catch inconsistent and
Rapid glimpses of a
Contemporary "real" world.

Shape-shifting from one
Ideology to the next.
Using time as a distraction; it's
Human nature to pause for countdowns.

They're all painted over. Oceans and
Gulfs covering lava and intrapersonal
Insides. Scrape it all off and you'll find that
Without all of the adhesives they bruise

Easier.

I would like to think of myself as an intellectual, but really I’m just a regurgitation of the adolescent caste system with academic anxiety and a learned fear. Well, I suppose that is a bit harsh. I used to be social *****; now I am a lowly intrapersonal custodian (let us never mind my inter-personal mess-managing, please?), though I am far from clean. __ I have found myself flitting back to this page from time to time and mentally inserting here a terse, self-degrading statement that could re-catalyze my pitiful little verse, but never actually writing it. I hold it heavy in my head where it shall remain, apparently. Apparently I don’t feel the need to read my flaws, transgressions, and fallibilities back to me. Perhaps I haven’t yet articulated them, and they’re just skulking around—hunched apparitions haunting my subconscious. (Death smells like dog treats: perplexing, but you want to touch your tongue to it so long as no one will know). I must slay them all, eventually, or else perish. But! It is not the transgression itself that I fear—my behaviors are observable, even tangible, I can stare at them for hours. It is the dark implication of the transgression—the churning matter only detectable for its outline of illumination—that gives me trepidation. How will I move-on? How will I grow-here? Like an impossible little spur that nestles between resistant skin and unknowing fabric? Can I penetrate the protection? My security is maniacal; it is evidence of crazed disillusion. I am the raven clawing through infinite veneers; I am tangled…

Out ****** spot! Out, I say!

I must regress to becoming the white blanket.
I must know nothing but God.
A simple cloth.
A towelette.
Rags!
Rags!
Rags!

…

….

…God?

…Hello?

         …Is it too late to become

…plain?

****...

It's funny how consecutive letters can bring about inspiration

(I've learned to balance my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation)

its been a minute since I've had my feelings in it

(this **** is never-ending so there is no end to begin it)

I got time in my pocket and there is no better place to spend it

than here on this mic...

don't ask me how I am doing

because I am not fine

so I continue to work through my pain as I cry through my rhymes

and I hate it and love it at the same time

****** me off, yet excites me so

its chocolate covered honey baked ham

served with raw egg yolks

a perfect-disconcerted measure of pleasure and pain

but I can't have the sweet without the salt

cuz it wouldn't taste the same

and the bitter-after taste of its reminder would not be there to sustain

the hard earned lessons that are now burned into the brain

casting these sad images of this life like a video on repeat

and I can't run from my reality no matter how fast I move my feet in retreat

So I use my spoken words to inhale its life into my lungs

I open my heart and tune my ear to the song that is being sung

inside me (God-- can you hear it?!)

This birthing of my desire so rare; so hot that its cooling to the touch

I love how I am powerless to it-- my appetite insatiable and can never get enough

This thing is a love affair....

I don't think I ever loved something so hard that was so physically intangible

but living without Word is most assuredly unmanageable

wanting to abandon it all to be with it is a thought purely fanciful

but its better than living here in this world without feeling -- with out its Love

Word to me you're so healing-- gives me that feeling that keeps me reeling like no one on earth ever has
Lost in my pages left to secure and blanket me

I am comforted by your presence

but the correct combination of itself can be found

unlike the lips of the utterer...

eating cereal as a midnight snack probably can make a nice metaphor,
like eating breakfast for dinner or something
but when you're eating cereal at midnight, thinking of this, the thing is
it's midnight and you're too tired to make any coherent thoughts or remember any ghosts of such in the morning
so it stays a private intrapersonal poem,
the kind you always regret not writing down because it's easy to forget, but also
the kind that gets spoiled by being written down and therefore not forgotten

I wish to be a single unit.
I want all of my body to contain my
vibrancy
I do not want to feel restrained by
my anxieties.
This unit will work together
a full microbiome
a complete structure
good-enough in nature
keeping you alive.
self-efficacy,
a concept I'd love to measure.
blood levels, stress worksheets, therapist visits,
drugs, anti-depressants, side effects
things i can measure.
Biology,I get it,
but intrapersonal connections?

She speaks in fragments, inarticulate in front of anyone
But thoughts inside her head seem clear and certain
She keeps on censoring herself, minding the audience
She’s firm on the belief that she can only say so much
People will keep on believing and clinging to their preconceived notions/ arguing and explaining herself are pointless/
She has long recognized this
but she struggles as she wants to speak her mind without qualms, without the fear of being judged and humiliated.
There’s freedom in the company of her thoughts, in intrapersonal conversations, and in forms of art which somehow reflect he highs and lows of her daily existence, and even those that she can barely understand.